On a street of unknown location, he fingered
the buttons of my jagged blouse. Not just anyone’s
blouse, but mine, alone in that hazy summer—
his undreamed mouth slapped hard to my lips—fresh
as a knife. I did not lose my body wrapped in its blindness
when he entered me. But fumbling flesh is always
imprecise. I could only stay focused
on a few clouds at a time. Reader, try thinking of an orange sky
splattered with starlings as a train knuckles through
oleander deserts. Try thinking anywhere
else. If you want a simpler answer, I could say
nothing
as if even the momentary
does not happen. I circle my own tracks, still can’t find
the heavens. Now I lie beside my husband, held
within the closed light of winter’s coddled room
and hear silence thicken.